Another Year in the Suicide Belt or Life During Wartime


Walk dog. Ruminate some more

About possible future

Tattoos. Organize hornets’

Nest collection. Walk dog.

Think about the bored commodities

Gossiping about us in the lunar

Strip malls of the night. Walk dog.

Photograph neighbor’s trash.




 The William Blake Show


1
What happens stays
in Vegas embarrassed
at becoming its' own
stereotype.

Hypnotized by
flashy language that
makes you think it's
all about you.

Mostly it sleeps and is
a Taoist apostle
to what happens.

2
Hodos chameleonis,
ant cancer or
liberate France?
That's what I thought.

How far am I now
into the sometimes
adventure of being?

Meanwhile, the cat's
gone depraved.

3
The night sky
explains itself.

Chiascuro train
wreck, slippery

widget in a Blakean
nightworld. It
continues




Here's a Little Permission to Exist if You're Needing Any

 

At the end of a long day

sometimes all you can do

is go somewhere quiet

and become a transparent balloon.

You're human. Please don't worry.

 

I say go ahead and become a balloon.

It's better than being the concubine of a car

indentured to intangible game theories

and wave forms. It's not like you're

going to be a balloon forever.

  

First you'll be a clear balloon

in whose clearness space continues

getting better acquainted with itself

then you'll be the philosopher’s stone

an undreamed of new system of

 

benevolent malice, a beautiful living

intermittently visible edition of Nervals'

brave Aurelia bound in radiant metemphychosis

and glazed with the misty rain of heaven.

So relax. You're ok. Even if you're dead.

 

You'll be a shield, several times, for several minutes,

then for many long smokey days

a weapon you will hold knowing its uses

in your amazing bright loving hands.

You'll be a small blue enamel

box in my pocket wherein his microscopic

celestial boudoir the holy ghost of William Blake

 

sits for centuries understanding how innocence

is deathless, looking fearlessly into mirroring infinities

putting his lipstick on, thinking how much he likes you.

 





These are the invisible things my sidereal blood tells me these nectar rummaging clear blue bullets

 

 

it's the only thing that can see me

 

my glassiness

through this 

shimmering promised

 

unseen silver

Only its seeing in my own dying 
at the end of the sentence 
robbing the process of its first
disabilities its dead mornings

Art as

new curses


the turning

music returning

the lost agonic

face

 

blue feathers
dismal invent
ories blue first
hands delays
that flower
 bewilderdered
fraction

 stilted not 

wanting


teach everything

to me about being

unborn

and falling


rage

that falls

from pierced skin

in tears 


abyss bliss

abyss bliss

abyss


wind ripple

of vicious subtlety

my glass 

hand grenade



I make you my red broken 

glass

animal paradise I

make you my glass

animal 

 


I break it

within my celestial bare

fist

 

crippled uncrownable
this imaginary glass
subterfuge it is
in its' own clearness

 

My transparency is the only friendly disease

 that sees me

its glint of

falling

it's the only thing that sees me

my glassiness

Only its seeing in my own dying 
at the end of the sentence 
robbing the process of first
diseases dead mornings


its own
broken eyed
infidelities

cold cupid
blue roses
forgetting
everything



Clarity after hunger

clarity after disintegration

clarity after language

first discovered clarity

left undiscovered

clarity after death

clarity after births'

first clarity

unplanned

unplanable

unappointed

first

emergency

beauty


my new continuing

 animal

your dying

sky


Strangled

glassness

glass spun

in burning

 

your reality

is my worry

 stone

road song


reality my furious

angel

song for traveling

 

blessed colorless

feral energy carry

this mysterious

skein of asphyxiation 

emergent pearl

of closing

 the closing eye

 




               Get your free copy of Cosmicism, a book of poems by Rich Cronshey, here.





© Mike Kravolich

Copyright © 2016, Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.

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Born and raised in LA and the desert West, Rich Cronshey’s 4 books of poems have been published by extremely small presses starting with Adagio of the Body in 1990. The Snow and the Snow, was published by Otis Nebula, in 2011. Trained in Tibetan Buddhist meditation, he worked as a hospice chaplain. Retired now, he is returning to writing and traveling.